Joe marshalled his thoughts, regretting last night’s excesses. ‘That is sad news indeed, sir. But there’s not a great deal I can do. The victim may be English and I’m sorry to hear it, but if, as you say, the murder was committed on French soil it must be the province of the Police Judiciaire. We couldn’t possibly interfere . . .’ Joe hesitated. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Sir Wyndham knew all this perfectly well.

A stifled exclamation of irritation which might have been ‘Tut!’ or ‘Pshaw!’ or even a click on the line startled him into adding hurriedly: ‘. . . unless there’s something I could do towards identification of the body. Do we know who the unfortunate gentleman is?’

An awkward silence was followed by: ‘They have a strong suspicion that the deceased is an English aristocrat and ex-soldier. Sir Stanley Somerton.’

Joe used the pause following this pronouncement to search his mental records. ‘Sorry, sir. Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of the man.’

‘No. I don’t wonder.’ There was no warmth in the reply. ‘He did spend most of his time travelling abroad after all. And kept well out of our sphere of activities.’

‘Have you been asked to send out any members of the family to confirm identity, sir? I’d gladly be on hand to receive them and guide them through the process – it’s all rather different over here. The Paris morgue is not a particularly . . . well . . . you shouldn’t think of sending in someone of a nervous disposition. Perhaps someone at the Embassy could –’

‘Stop rattling on, Sandilands! We’re sending over his wife. Lady Catherine has been informed and is packing as we speak. She’ll be on the noon flight arriving at teatime – you know the score – and I want you to arrange to see her when she fetches up at police HQ. No need to go to Le Bourget to meet her – the Embassy are taking care of all that. You can do the hand-holding business in the morgue.’

Joe was encouraged by a lightening in the tone to reply: ‘Right-o, sir. I’ll parade with smelling salts and handkerchief at a time to be arranged. Um . . . have they told us whom they have arrested for this crime?’

‘They have indeed.’ The Assistant Commissioner was once again deadly serious. ‘And this is where you come in, Joe. You will want to be involved in whatever capacity you can contrive for yourself when I tell you that the suspect they’ve arrested is George. George Jardine. Friend of yours, I understand? When we heard, someone said straight away, “Get Sandilands out there.”’

Joe mastered his astonishment and disbelief to reply firmly: ‘Terrible news. But not the disaster you suggest, surely, sir? It must be a misunderstanding . . . a mix-up with the language . . . failure to communicate one way or another at any rate – Sir George is a diplomat. And a top one at that! He has immunity. He might have shot dead the whole front row of the chorus and he could be lounging at ease with a reviving cup of tea in the shelter of the British Embassy out of reach of the Law. Why is he in a police cell? This is outrageous!’

‘Ah, you don’t know . . . you hadn’t heard?’ Agusty sigh down the telephone and then: ‘George no longer has diplomatic status, I’m afraid. He resigned his post a couple of months ago. He’s retired. Hasn’t quite severed his links – talks of returning – but, officially (and that’s all that counts with the French), he’s a free agent, no longer employed by HM Government and no longer under the umbrella of diplomatic immunity. Unlisted. A huge loss. One might have expected them to show some respect for his past position and let the matter drop. But the chap I spoke to who seems to be handling the case is one of those heel-clicking martinets you trip across sometimes over the Channel. Brittle. Self-important. You know the type. We’re not short of a few over here . . . Anyway, I see from your file, Sandilands, which I have before me, that you have experience in dealing with this style of Gallic intractability . . . interpreter during the war, weren’t you? We must have a drink when you’ve sorted all this out – I’d like to hear your slant on old Joffre. Anyway. Mustn’t keep you. Get on down there, will you? Let me see . . . their HQ is at . . . now where did I . . .?’

‘36, Quai des Orfèvres, sir,’ said Joe. ‘Staircase A. I’ve visited before. Makes our HQ look like Aladdin’s palace. I’ll do what I can and report back, er, this evening.’

‘Very well. Oh, and, Sandilands – feel free to reverse the charges, will you? No expense to be spared on this one. Better take down my home number. Got a pen?’

Joe replaced the hand-set and stayed on in the booth for a moment or two, deep in thought. He went to the reception desk where the manager was still hovering nervously with a solicitous eye to the English gentleman now revealed to be an agent of the British police force. Joe spoke in a reassuring undertone requesting more telephone time. He needed to put a call through to this number. He handed him a card, carefully avoiding using the word ‘police’. Guests were beginning to trickle through on their way to breakfast in the dining room and Joe recollected that hotel management the world over had a horror of any suggestion of police activity, even benign activity. Luckily Jean-Philippe Bonnefoye’s card simply gave his name and telephone number.

Joe went back into the booth and waited through several clicks and bangs for the ringing tone that told him the manager had successfully made contact with the number. Disconcertingly, it was a young woman’s voice that answered sleepily. He asked to be allowed to speak to his colleague Jean-Philippe.

‘Colleague? If you’re a colleague you should know better than to ring him at such an unearthly hour! He’s only just gone to bed. Push off!’

He shouted something urgently down the telephone to prevent her hanging up on him and unleashed a torrent of words in which ‘distress . . . emergency . . . international incident . . .’ played a part.

At the words ‘entente cordiale’ she finally hooted with derision and gave in. A few moments later Bonnefoye grunted down the phone. He recovered his wits rapidly as Joe concisely and twice over conveyed the information he’d just had from the Yard.

‘Martinet?’ he said. ‘Know who you mean. He’s a bastard. But most of the blokes in the Crim’ are good guys. Look – why don’t you give me time to get myself organized and I’ll see you down there. I’m not involved . . . yet . . . but I can at least perform a few introductions and blather on about international co-operation. Ease your path a bit. In one hour? I’ll see you at the coppers’ entrance. You know it? Good! I’ll just go and soak my head and drink a gallon of coffee. Suggest you do the same.’

The doorman whistled up a taxicab when he emerged from the Ambassador, showered and shaved, and dressed, calculatedly, in conservative English fashion. Thanks to his sister’s careful packing, his dark three-piece suit had survived the journey in perfectly wearable condition. He had put on a stiff-collared shirt and regimental tie. Sadly no bowler hat which would have impressed them; Joe did not possess such a ridiculous item of headgear. No headgear at all, since his fedora was lost somewhere at Le Bourget.

The morning traffic was thick and the taxi, weaving its way through the press of horse-drawn cabs and delivery lorries, was making slow progress. Once or twice in his anxiety for Sir George, Joe contemplated getting out and racing along on foot. The exercise would clear his muddled head, the sharp air would purify his lungs and the sight of Paris, magnificent and mysterious in the dissolving river fog, would delight his eye, but he decided it might make better sense to conserve the physical resources left to him after last night’s experiences. He didn’t want to ride to George’s rescue sweating, foaming and breathless. Calm, confident and helpful – that was what was required. In any case, they were bound to be stunned by his timely appearance on their doorstep and his title was impressive. Deliberately so. A ‘Commander’ with its naval flavour got attention, largely because no one seemed to have the slightest idea what it entailed or dared to ask and some even confused it with ‘Commissioner’ and took him to be the face of Scotland Yard.